


The Dizzying Feel of Love

by 17stepstobakerstreet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Doctor John Watson, M/M, Sherlock and John love each other, Sherlock needs John, john is worried, this is pretty much just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:49:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21722509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/17stepstobakerstreet/pseuds/17stepstobakerstreet
Summary: "As you know, my mind is a speeding train of thoughts, a never-ending trail of observations about the world that I can’t shut off. I get restless. Sometimes I turn to drugs to alleviate it, to turn it off for a little while. Just long enough to make it all stop. Sometimes I-- I don’t need drugs to do that. Your presence, it helps immensely. Your touch helps even more. When I woke up today, with a torrent of thoughts spinning around my mind at unthinkable speeds, I sought you out.” Sherlock paused, moving to sit in a more comfortable position. “After I discovered you were gone, my thoughts and emotions got a bit out of hand. It wasn’t meant to happen,” Sherlock said quietly as if he were ashamed of the fact that his mind had even dared to betray him in such a way as this.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 87





	The Dizzying Feel of Love

John could tell that something was wrong without even ascending the seventeen steps to the main room of his flat. As he ran up to investigate the loud crashing noises, he tried not to fret over the worried rambling of Mrs. Hudson. _He’s just restless_ , John told himself. _Nothing to worry about. He’s probably just frantically searching for cigarettes, nothing is wrong._ That didn’t stop his heart from pounding in his chest, and it certainly didn’t stop him from crashing into the sitting room of 221b with concern at the front of his mind.

“What’s going on?” John said, his voice causing a stillness to course through the room as Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock stopped what they were doing to look at him. Sherlock, with bags under his eyes and three-day-old stubble on his chin, had his forearm resting against the wall, and Mrs. Hudson had her hands wrapped around his other wrist, obviously trying to pull him away from the wall. The wall that now had a huge, fist-shaped crater in it. John balked, his anger simmering dangerously under his skin. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words died down as Sherlock swayed unsteadily on his feet, eyes locked on John.

“John,” Sherlock said hoarsely, his knees buckling under him. Mrs. Hudson let out a frightened noise and dropped Sherlock’s hand, rushing to John’s side. As Sherlock continued to stare at John, Mrs. Hudson squeezed John’s hand tightly.

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here John, he’s been like this all morning and it’s frightening me! He’s not looking for cigarettes, and he has a case to work on, so he’s not in need of mental stimulation. This is something entirely different. He’s even torn his knuckles open, what with punching the wall, the poor thing,” Mrs. Hudson cooed, her hands fluttering around to land over her heart. John shifted his gaze to Sherlock’s knuckles and clenched his hands tightly when he saw the ripped, bloody flesh covering them. John, taking Mrs. Hudson by the elbow, started leading her quickly towards the staircase. Whatever was going on with Sherlock, he wanted to resolve it as quickly as he could.

“I’ll take it from here Mrs. Hudson, thank you for telling me what’s going on. Why don’t you go down to your flat and have a nice cuppa, alright?” Mrs. Hudson nodded before carefully descending the stairs to her flat. John shut the door softly behind her, turning once more to his friend that was still slumped over on the floor, a dazed expression on his face. John, walking as calmly as he could to his friend, kneeled on the ground in front of Sherlock and took his pulse, being careful not to brush up against the wounds on his knuckles. Fear spiked through him when he felt the fast, erratic rush of blood just under Sherlock’s skin. The detective sucked in a sharp breath when John gripped his chin and looked into his eyes.

“Sherlock, what’s going on? I’ve never seen you like this, you’re--” he checked the back of Sherlock’s head for injuries before continuing, “you’re not okay. What’s gotten into you? You know you can tell me if… Sherlock?” The man in question, who had been staring for the past few minutes, had his eyes closed and his head pressing gently into John’s hand, his lips forming a silent string of one word, repeated over and over again. _This isn’t normal_ , John thought, panic rising in his stomach. _Something is wrong. Very, very wrong._ He moved to pull his hand away, but just before he could, Sherlock gripped his wrist and kept it in place against the back of his head.

“No, John, please, just-- just leave it there for a few minutes, okay? It helps, it…” Sherlock shuddered and tightened his grip around John’s wrist, leaning forward to place his pallid forehead against his knees. Alarm bells were going off loudly in John’s mind, and for a moment his brain was clouded by the still-rising amount of panic filled him. He didn’t know what to do.

“Sherlock, what do you mean it helps? What’s wrong? I need to know in case something isn't right or if you need to be taken to the hospital.” As John said the word ‘hospital’, Sherlock growled. John sighed in frustration. “So you don’t like the idea of the hospital? Then tell me what the bloody hell is going on with you!” Sherlock, loosening the grip on John’s wrist, sat up slowly and met John’s eyes, taking a deep breath. John’s hand fell away from Sherlock’s head, and John thought he saw a look of discomfort on the man’s face from the lack of contact.

“Well, as you know, my mind is a speeding train of thoughts, a never-ending trail of observations about the world that I can’t shut off. I get restless. Sometimes I turn to drugs to alleviate it, to turn it off for a little while. Just long enough to make it all stop. Sometimes I-- I don’t need drugs to do that. Your presence, it helps immensely. Your touch helps even more. When I woke up today, with a torrent of thoughts spinning around my mind at unthinkable speeds, I sought you out.” Sherlock paused, moving to sit in a more comfortable position. “After I discovered you were gone, my thoughts and emotions got a bit out of hand. It wasn’t meant to happen,” Sherlock said quietly as if he were ashamed of the fact that his mind had even dared to betray him in such a way as this.

John was still trying to get his foggy, panic-filled brain to understand what Sherlock was saying. “I-- I’m a healthy alternative to drugs for you? But how does that work? I don’t physically do anything to you,” John said, shaking his head to try to clear it.

“John, I don’t think you quite understand the extent of how you affect my mind,” Sherlock said, his hands starting to fidget in his lap. He averted his gaze from John’s as he continued. “When you’re around, and nothing else is going on, my senses zero in on you. Your scent, your eyes, your body language, sometimes even your proximity to me. It’s dizzying, John, the effect you have on me. Hence the reason I collapsed when you walked into the room.” Sherlock smiled down at his lap, completely oblivious to the state that John Watson was starting to fall into. He couldn’t quite handle the information that Sherlock was throwing at him, and he felt like he was drowning in his-- in his-- he didn’t even _know._ This was a lot of responsibility, and he felt like he couldn’t handle it, that he wasn’t worthy. A small question wriggled around impatiently in the back of his head, and it popped out before he could think about it.

“Why me?” John asked, glancing over Sherlock’s face, still unconsciously searching for some kind of injury. “What’s so special about me? Why was I given this responsibility?” At John’s questions, Sherlock’s face faded into a deep red color, and he looked over his shoulder, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“Well John, that may be attributed to the fact that I am, irrefutably, in love with you. I have been ever since you shot a man for me.”

The silence that echoed through the room was unbearable, and the tension was so thick the men could feel it shoving its way into their mouths, into their throats, suffocating them. John felt tears prickling his eyes as he, almost instinctively, swayed towards the man sitting in front of him. John rested his brow gently against Sherlock’s shoulder, and as he did, he felt Sherlock shudder as all of the tension left his muscles. Tears flowed from John’s eyes, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Sherlock _loved him._ At least that’s what he had said. 

“Did… did you mean it, Sherlock?” John asked after a few minutes, clutching at the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, trying to blink the unwanted tears out of his eyes. He had imagined this moment for years, in every way imaginable: Sherlock murmuring those words to him as they lean against each other in a back alley, high on adrenaline after a case; a whispered confession as the two men sit at a stakeout together; even the less-than-desirable one where Sherlock choked his true feelings out as he succumbed slowly to the bullet lodged in his chest. He never quite imagined it like this, both of them kneeling, slumped together on the floor of their sitting room, the uncertainty in the air settling over them both like a heavy, scratchy blanket. Sherlock’s arms shifted, gently wrapping themselves around John, and suddenly John couldn’t stop crying for a reason unknown to him.

“Of course I meant it, John,” Sherlock whispered hoarsely. “I’ve never meant anything more in my entire life.” John could hear the smile in his voice as he moved his head slightly closer to John’s, causing his breath to fan pleasantly against John’s cheek. A deep sigh came from Sherlock, and John felt a warmth spreading in his chest at the sound. It was beautiful. Everything about Sherlock was beautiful. “God, John,” Sherlock said slowly, “I wish you could feel what I’m feeling right now. I’m consumed with thoughts of you, you have become my entire existence.” John nodded, distantly realizing that he was starting to understand just what Sherlock meant by. His physical proximity was intoxicating, and John was starting to feel drunk on Sherlock. His body heat, his voice, his scent, his everything. All other thoughts drifted away, and John was left with only Sherlock. 

On its own accord, John’s head turned slightly, his lips seeking out Sherlocks’. As their noses brushed together, Sherlock gasped in a small breath, his fist clenching around John’s shirt. A breathy laugh escaped from John’s lungs, and before he knew what he was doing, he pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s lips. The detective gasped once more before sinking into the kiss, moving to thread his fingers through John’s short, blonde hair. Despite the fact that the kiss was far from perfect, John knew it would be the one that he cherished for the rest of his life. Sherlock’s lips were dry and chapped, most likely from repetitive biting and chewing at the soft skin, and John relished in the rough feel of it against his own slightly chapped lips. It just made the moment that much more real. _This is happening_ , John thought, his heart soaring. _Sherlock Holmes is kissing_ me _in_ our _flat because he_ loves _me._

The kiss broke suddenly, the loss of contact dizzying for both men. When John shook the fog out of his mind, he saw Sherlock cradling his injured fist, pressing on some of the raw skin carefully. John internally slapped himself for not remembering to patch up Sherlock’s fist and moved to get the first aid kit. Sherlock stopped him with a firm grip to the wrist, pulling him back down to lean against him once more. “It’s fine, John,” Sherlock mumbled, pressing his face into John’s good shoulder. “It’s not bad. Don’t let it ruin this for us, please, just… I need you to stay here with me, for at least a little while longer.” John nodded and threaded his fingers through the dense curls on Sherlock’s head, something he had dreamed about doing ever since he walked into that lab at Bart’s. Except now, he didn’t have to imagine it. This was real.

The thought made a large smile break out on John’s face, and he brought Sherlock’s head a little bit closer so that he could bury his nose in his hair and inhale, taking in the sweet smell of his shampoo. _This is real. I’m… I’m allowed to do this now._ John felt dizzy at the realization that he was permitted to do this. That he had all the permission needed to fold Sherlock into his arms, to press soft kisses to the crown of his head, to hold his hand like it was a national treasure, to whisper his lips over his soft, pale skin, to absolutely worship him in every single way possible. Hell to those officers at the Yard, Sherlock was beautiful and amazing and his. Speaking of the idiots at the Yard…

“Sherlock,” John said with a coarse quality to his voice, “you… you don’t listen to what Sally and Anderson say, do you? I should have said this so long ago, but--” a lump forced its way into John’s throat, and he had to swallow it down before continuing. “You aren’t a freak or a sociopath, and they’re blind to not see that. You are one of the most beautiful people I have ever met, you feel so much, you’re like-- you’re like a flame, burning bright with everything you have, with everything you do. You save people that need saving, you hate it when you can’t, and they must not even be paying attention to you when something goes wrong and you can’t protect someone you never even meant to put in danger in the first place. They--”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted in a rough voice, “you’re rambling.” The man’s face turned pink as he clamped his mouth shut tightly. Sherlock laughed softly, and John couldn’t help but laugh as well. He was a mess at the moment, but he didn’t care. Sherlock didn’t care. Because it didn’t matter, did it? Nothing mattered apart from them and the time they were sharing at the moment.

“Oh, and John?” Sherlock said after a little while, running his fingers carefully along John’s arm. “I don’t listen to them. Well, I try not to. It gets to me sometimes. But then, I look at you, and the amount of utter awe in your eyes is enough to remind me that they’re wrong and that they simply aren’t worthy of my attention or my pity. They don’t deserve to know the real me, the me that only you have the privilege to know.” John hummed in agreement, thoughts slowly draining out of his mind as his focus shifted only to the hand running gently up and down his arm and the comfortable heat surrounding his body. John felt high and happy, holding Sherlock closely on the floor of their flat. What he wouldn’t give to stay like that forever, bathed in the quiet bliss of their apartment, drunk with everything Sherlock.

They stayed there for hours upon end, sharing whispers and laughs with each other, moving only once to relocate themselves to the couch, collapsing on each other again. They threaded their fingers together, pressed soft kisses to every inch of skin that was uncovered, caressed each other’s faces, held each other close, threaded fingers through soft, silky hair, and learned. They took their time exploring each other, loving each other, until they knew the other person better than themselves, better than they ever thought they could know another person. And if Mrs. Hudson peeked into the room to check up on them, concerned by the lengthy silence, and smiled at them, sitting on the couch, holding each other close in a warm embrace, what did it matter? She would leave and never mention it to anybody but would hold the moment in a safe part of her heart, remembering it as the day that John and Sherlock realized they needed each other. It was a perfect moment, the most perfect moment, and all three of them would remember it for the rest of their lives.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading this! If you liked it, please consider leaving a kudos and a comment for me!


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